Chapter 16 Dillan
DILLAN
Listen, I’m not being mean.
I’m simply no longer going out of my way to make you comfortable with my actions.
—Dillan’s Secret Thoughts
The flame flickers on the maple butter candle that burns on the table next to me.
The same scent that’s been burning since the day after Rome and I spent the night together two years ago.
The same day I wrote the prologue of A Crown of Stars and Ruin.
The Prologue seemed to write itself that day.
I opened a new Word document, ignoring the old one I’d been working on, and started typing without even plotting. It worked that day.
Some days, words flow from my fingertips like my computer is an extension of my mind, and these characters that live there are just demanding I tell their story in vibrant, vivid color and heartbreakingly, beautifully broken detail.
The rich hues of the leaves crunching under their boots along the floor of the cold forest before the first snowfall.
The metallic clash of heavy sword against sword.
The painful final embrace before brothers are pitted against one another.
A love torn painfully between two men. A woman forced to choose between her heart and the kingdom she’s grown to love.
Those days are my favorites.
I’ve learned that rainy days tend to be my most productive writing days.
Something about the dreary weather and the rhythmic tap of the rain against the window speaks to my muse.
The storm brewing outside gave me hope today would be one of those days.
The kind I love. The kind that let me feel a little less like an imposter.
Apparently, not all rainy days are equal, though, and productive is the opposite of how I’m feeling today.
No matter how many times I reread the same paragraph, I simply have no idea what words come next.
It doesn’t matter that I have each chapter of this book plotted out in my favorite hardbound, college-ruled notebook sitting beside me, having realized halfway through book one that I was going to have to get real familiar with plotting if a trilogy was going to work.
Or that my A Crown of Stars and Ruin playlist is shuffling on repeat, my maple butter candle burning, and my coffee is hot and sweet in my hand.
Nothing is helping because my muse is a gigantic twat waffle. At least today she is.
My editor is a saint. One I’ve known most of my life, who was as excited to work on this trilogy as I was to write it, but even she’s going to murder me if I don’t finish this book soon.
A notification pops up on the computer screen, and I silence it, cursing myself, my choices, and my stupidly hot fake fucking boyfriend because it’s time to get ready for the Black & White Ball.
In just the few weeks I’ve been living here, I’ve basically taken over Rome’s office.
Not hard since I’ve only seen him in here when he’s looking for me.
Which, thankfully, means it only takes a few minutes to clean up the space, especially as the song changes and Marshmello and Jelly Roll begin singing about holy water, and I send up a silent thank-you to my mother for the amazing noise-canceling wireless headphones she gave me for Christmas.
They make it so much easier to ignore my psycho .
. . At least that’s what I’m telling myself I’m doing, because there’s no way I’m hiding. Nope. That’s not happening.
I’m not hiding from the feelings that flicker to life like my candle at the first strike of the lighter each time he smiles my way.
I don’t need to hide from that—from him—because that would mean I’ve forgotten what an absolute ass Rome Beneventi is, and I will not let myself forget that, no matter how tempting that damn smile is.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I make my way up the open stairs to the loft and smile at the perfectly made bed.
Who would have figured Rome would be the neat freak of the two of us.
Definitely not me, but he’s the one who makes the bed each day.
He also picks up the clothes I leave on the floor next to the bed.
Clothes I’d probably put in a hamper if I were in my own home.
But half of what’s making this entire agreement—if you can call it that—bearable is driving him as crazy as he’s driving me.
So yes, pissing off Rome has been moved to the top of my daily to-do list, and leaving my clothes on the floor seems to do that quite nicely.
A smile tugs at my lips as I slide off my socks and leggings and add them to the growing pile, wishing I didn’t have to wash my hair. Maybe . . . ? I look in the mirror and shake my head.
Who am I kidding? I might not want to go to this thing tonight, but I’m absolutely vain enough to want to look so good that I bring the psycho to his knees. Guess I’m washing my hair.
Kinda wishing that didn’t make my smile grow, but it does. Oh well, one more thing to tuck away into the little box where I attempt to shove everything that stresses me out. It’s getting a little crowded in there. Might be time for a bigger box.
Humming as I pad across the plush carpet, I push the bathroom door open and stop moving. I stop thinking for that matter too. I’m not even sure I’m still breathing, but my eyes are definitely working, and holy fucking hell, my hormones are too.
Oh . . .
Rome stands like a Greek god in the shower.
His head bent and dark hair falling in his gorgeous face as water sluices over it.
Steam billows around him as hot water from four body sprays and three shower heads beat down over his delicious body.
Beautiful ink wraps around corded muscle.
So much muscle. One hand planted on the marbled tile wall in front of him, and the other fisted around his massive cock.
Toned, tan skin moves . . . muscles flexing with every stroke of his hand.
His mouth opens and closes, and I want to rip my headphones off so I can hear the sounds falling from those lips.
My God, my mouth waters, and my pussy throbs in time with my pulse.
He’s . . . incredible. Like a statue carved from stone by an ancient Renaissance artist in an old Italian city, only bigger. Better. More beautiful.
This is wrong.
I should look away.
Walk away.
But I can’t.
I can’t make my feet move or my eyes close.
Rome’s knees bend, and his mouth opens again . . .
I lick my lips.
Need warring with sanity and decency. Both raging. Until I lose the war and press my thighs together, desperate for relief. The tiny movement is all it takes to give me away.
Rome’s gaze darts to the mirror where our eyes lock, but even now, I still don’t move. Even if he does. He strokes harder. Faster. Never looking away.
Oh. My. God.
It’s so hot.
He’s so hot.
Impossible thoughts push me to move, but I don’t.
No matter how much I wish I could drop to my knees in front of him.
We stay locked in this wicked spell as if Rome can read my thoughts, and he slows his strokes, waiting for me.
Only when I don’t move, a muscle ticks in his jaw, and I swear those eyes, already darker than the damn abyss, deepen, and this beautiful man watches me as he strokes himself again and again, faster and harder until hot ropes of cum paint the shower wall and a groan falls from his lips loud enough that even the music playing in my ears can’t drown out the sound.
I suck in an audible breath as my pulse races and my body thrums, strung tight with need.
Maybe a bigger person would apologize or be ashamed.
But I guess I’m not a bigger person because I don’t do either.
I’m not sorry or embarrassed, though I probably should be both.
As calmly as I can, I turn on the balls of my feet and get the hell out of Dodge, knowing there’s no way I want to talk because seriously, what the hell am I going to say?
When in doubt, double down on avoidance.
It’s worked for us for the past two years.
Sort of.
What’s one more night?
Ignoring Rome and the heat in his eyes as he turns off the water, if that’s possible, I walk out of the bathroom and directly into the closet.
Okay, yes, I’m abso-freaking-lutely hiding.
And apparently having internal conversations with myself where I not only think things but answer myself too. Great.
Get a grip, Dillan.
Looking around, I take the garment bag I picked up yesterday with my gown in it and hang it from the closet door, desperately needing something to do with my hands.
Because right now . . . if I can’t keep myself busy, I might just walk back into that bathroom and beg that asshole of a man to fuck me or finger me or feast on me just to relieve that mounting pressure, and that is not an option.
Mounting . . . How fitting. I’d like to mount him.
How the fuck am I a romance author with the sense of humor of a teenage boy?
I run my fingers through my hair, catching my headphones and knocking them off my head. Shit.
The closet door opens, and light floods the large space before I hear him, and with the headphones on the floor, I can’t even act like I don’t hear him.
“Dillan . . .” Apparently, my muse isn’t the only twat waffle today. No . . . fate is being a fickle little bitch too.
I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re all fucking fine.
None of that’s true. Not even a little bit, but maybe if I tell myself it is, it will be.
Guess that’s what I’m going with.
I turn on shaky legs and force a smile because this son of a bitch looks as good holding a fluffy white towel wrapped around lean hips, leaving just enough of that beautiful V showing for my mouth to run dry.
Water drips down his abs and under the towel, taunting me.
He looks as good now as he did in the damn shower. How is that fair?
“Oh good. You’re out of the shower. Hope you left some hot water. Give me an hour, and I should be ready. Thanks.” I don’t stop to give Rome time to respond before I brush by him and let myself into the bathroom.
Though, unlike Rome, I lock the door.
Rome
Oh, princess. You can run, but you can’t hide.
Dillan scurries into the bathroom, and I feel her loss every-fucking-where.
This woman is an addiction I haven’t been able to kick for fucking years. One hit was never going to be enough. Not once I had her. And one way or the other, it’s going to stop.
But can I give her up?
Who hurt you?
You did.
The words from the night at her parents haunt me. What did she mean? How did I hurt her when she threw me out? And if I hurt her so badly, why the hell didn’t she turn around and walk away tonight instead of staying and watching?
There’s a fine fucking line between love and hate, and we’re walking it like a goddamned tightrope.
The bathroom lock clicks in place, like that would keep me out if I wanted in.
And I do want in, but not like this.
Game on, princess.
Over an hour later, I’m texting the damn limo driver to let him know we’ll be out soon. Who the fuck knows if that’s true or not. Dillan is still in the bathroom and hasn’t acknowledged me since she locked herself in there.
I crack my neck and adjust my tie. I should have gotten a new tux for tonight but wasn’t thinking about the fact I’ve put on muscle since the last time I wore this.
The damn thing is too tight, and the tie’s got to go.
But if I show up and walk the damn white carpet without a tie on, I don’t care how fucking old I am, Ma will lose her shit.
She doesn’t make us do a ton of these Kingston events, but this one matters to her.
Anything that benefits kids matters to her, and this is one of the biggest fundraisers of the year.
I loosen my tie and look up at the first creak of the stairs alerting me to her. To all of her. Damn . . . She’s . . . just . . . Damn.
She’s . . .
Dillan carefully makes her way down the stairs, a small satin purse in one hand and a pair of heels in the other. Without thinking, I step up to the bottom of the stairs and hold my hand out to her.
Does she take it?
Fuck no. That would be too easy, and this woman is anything but easy.
She moves around me, drops her heels and balances against the railing as she slips her feet inside. And she does it all without looking at me. “I’m ready.”
“You look—”
“Don’t, Rome,” she stops me. “Just don’t talk, okay. Let’s just get through tonight, for both our sakes.”
“Yeah . . . That’s not gonna work for me,”—I lift her face up to mine, deciding just how far I can push her—“principessa.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes dart away from mine, nerves etched in each tight muscle of her face. “Can we just not?”
I slide my other hand to the small of her back and lean down, ghosting my lips over the shell of her ear. “Oh, we’re going to. And when we do, you’re going to fucking scream my name while you’re looking right into my eyes, stellina.”
A shiver works its way down her gorgeous body, and she blows out a sweet breath. “You use too many nicknames, psycho.”
“You better be ready to put on a good show tonight, Dillan,” I warn her.
“And why would I do that?” Her eyes flick back to mine, a fire burning there.
“Because I’ve already given you a show. Now, it’s your turn.”